The Art Of Manipulation
by Rio 2.0
Summary: Didn't you know? Writing doth make liars of us all. There are promises of meaning so much more, and before you even realize it, you're falling and sinking all at once and no one is there to catch you. MT


**A/N:**_ Welp... Here's another one. This one may not be crap... but it isn't good... it stopped... flowing...  
I may edit it later, but right now, I need to post my outlet. _

**Disclaimer: **_School is equivalent to death. My ownage to KHR is not. _

**Dedications: blubelle,** _because she is wonderfully spectacular and I aspire to write according to her standards, and_ **Tsuki,** _for not only putting up with my KHR obsession, but attempting to force it upon herself, while only recieving my crappy lack of attempts in return. _

* * *

The first letter he receives in the mail only served to confuse him. 

It had no return address and no autograph, so the young, oblivious boy passed it off as a hoax, no matter how personal and enticing the beautiful words on the silken paper appeared to be.

A week later, he received another.

This one is harder to ignore and pass off as a ruse, for its intimate details ensnared the boy, luring him into its complex trap of love and obsession.

Ignorant of any possible malignant intentions, the boy finds the week passes slowly in anticipation.

Not to be disappointed, he finds another elegantly anonymous letter in his own personal mail not a week later.

The boy clings onto every word, every sentence, and every promise as if they were his only salvation.

For one who has felt stigmatized for the entirety of his life due to his ineptitude, the charming appeal of the deceptively tender letters brings a tiny ray of light to his meagre existence. To simply cast a glance towards this light proves fatal, for one lost in the darkness is not likely to forsake a small hope for freedom.

Week followed week.

Letter followed letter.

Months passed.

Month after month... Week after week… Letter after letter filled with cordial words filled with breathtaking promises of meaning so much more.

It was only a gradual change, but in time, the young, introverted boy matured into a sociable, exultant young man.

The only continual problem he faced week after week without fail was the simple fact that his admirer, the one who had pulled him from the dark depths within his self, had left no name.

He held no identity, despite the miniscule fact that the writer held the boys heart and soul in the palm of his hand.

No name for him to call out in his sleep amidst a dream of passion.

No face to recognize in the morning, or even walking down the street to go shopping.

No voice to read the pleasing words written on the aged and well-worn pages, so safely stored under his mattress.

This fact was more then displeasing, and once this reality was firmly entrenched in his mind, the boy began to slip.

Slowly, the boy began to regress into his former state. The ray of light illuminating his stifling darkness began to diminish and the boy sunk.

The following week there was no letter.

Despair began to settle in and the boy was no longer sinking. Instead he fell, fast and hard, aiming for solid ground and no waiting arms to catch him.

The following week after that, there came a letter, but it was different then all its predecessors.

It was short, a mere four words and fourteen letters.

He would know this, for he had only read it a good eighty nine times before his tears threatened to destroy the parchment.

_I'll come find you. _

There was no proper word to describe the boy and his feelings.

_**I'll**__ come find __**you**_

And so he waited.

And he waited some more, firm in his belief that he would be found and saved.

A week later, there was a significant lack of a letter addressed to him in the memorable graceful writing.

There was no visitor, and no _face_ and no _name_ and no _voice. _

Weeks followed, seasons passed and the light diminished.

The young boy claws onto his last thread of optimism, hanging on to it knowing full well he has nothing past his devotion to this obsession.

Another week.

His cutesy little slippers were all that slowed him down when running to his quaint mailbox at the end of his plainly decorative driveway.

He all but ripped open the small modest box, hopeful gaze eagerly searching for anything that may insinuate another alluring letter addressed to him.

Droves of truth spilled forth from the dimmed eyes as the young boy, posture hunched and feet dragging, trudged forth towards his front door. Strength sufficiently dwindled; he barely noticed the gentle breeze that spontaneously ruffles his hair, or the gentle voice that calls his name.

Up snaps his head, whipping around to maybe catch a glimpse of someone he has never met, but would do anything for.

He finds himself alone, in a dark and chilling place. There is no light; just as there is no sky, mailbox or driveway either. There is, however, a rolling fog lapping at his cold feet.

The boy jumps when arms wrap around his waist from behind, warm breath hot against his ear.

Suppressing a shiver, he tried to turn around, pull away, to simply move and finds that he can't.

A smooth, suave voice soon echoes in his ear

_Tsuna…_

He gasps, his attention drawn away from the silently creeping vines inching up his legs.

He is unsure of how, or why, but he knows that this is who he has been waiting for.

He tries to speak, voice his questions and thoughts, only to find that his apparent immobile state is not limited to only his limbs.

The lithe body flush against his own form behind disappears.

A face materializes before his.

He is instantly captivated by the man's gorgeous eyes, and how his hair frames his attractive features.

The face with striking features inched closer, soon moulding lips together as two cold hands gently held his face. Finding it hard to breath, the boy gives into temptation. As the world faded to black, all he saw was his saviours smiling face

The next time Tsuna appears at school, his friends can help but question his sunny disposition and his constant smile, but they feel that as long as he is happy, there is no need to fret.

The only thing that even remotely worries them is the consistent menacing look in Tsuna's eyes.

Somewhere, in the depths of hell, a voice rings out.

_Why?_

**_Because writers are liars, my dear._**

* * *

**_The End!_**

_**---** But I am le tired**.---**_

**_Always,  
BV_**


End file.
